The Difference Between Copying and Printing








I had to print several documents from a USB drive so I googled “local print shop” and found a store close to my home. Rather than reveal the store name, I’ll instead offer up that it rhymes with poopy-S.

Me: Hi, I need to print a few documents. Are these printers self-service?

Clerk: You’re making copies?

Me: No, I’m looking to print some documents.

Clerk: Okay, so you’ll need a key to access our copy machines.

Whatever, I thought. The clerk hands me a small box that looked like a harmonica.

Me: What’s this for?

Clerk: It’s a copy counter. You insert it into the copy machine and it counts the number of copies.

Me: I’m not making copies. Will it also count the printed pages?

Clerk: We’re talking about the same thing.

Me: I guess I’m just used to other print shops where you can use a credit card at the actual machine to print documents. It’s self service.

Clerk: Yeah.

I insert the box into the machine and then begin my search for the USB port. No luck.

Me: Where’s this machine’s USB port?

Clerk: It doesn’t have one.

I should have known. Any copy/printer that is the same color as the kitchen appliances my parents had when I was growing up was likely a bad sign.

Me: So, this machine doesn’t allow printing?

Clerk: Sure it does.

Me: I thought we were talking about the same thing? And your front window has a huge sign that says you’re a full service print shop.

Clerk: We are. You place your documents into the feeder and it prints a copy for you.

Me: That’s copying, not printing.

Clerk: Why are you so combative, Dude?

Me: I’m not combative. It’s just that printers were invented in like 1899 and here we are in 2016 and you’re clueless about the difference between printing and copying.

Clerk walks over to my machine and lifts the top cover.

Clerk: Watch.

He places his hand on the glass surface and presses Start. The machine lights up and a bright blue bar scrolls across the glass. A second later a sheet of paper emerges from the side of the machine. The clerk grabs the paper and holds it up.

Clerk: See. I just printed a copy of my hand.

Me: That’s still copying, not printing. You know what. It’s okay. I’ll just find another way to do this.

Clerk: So, you’re giving up?

Me: To be honest I sort of gave up when you handed me the harmonica.

Clerk: What’s a harmon–

Me: Yes! I’m giving up. Have a wonderful life. Good-bye.


Is It Okay to Discipline Someone Else’s Child?


The picture will make more sense after you read the post:)

I was standing in a cashier line at a clothing retailer yesterday when I felt a sudden burst of taps against my butt. I turned around and looked down to find a child holding a metal clothes hanger. He was smacking the hanger against the accessory displays that lined the cashier aisle. I assumed the child had tapped me with the hanger. The child’s attention seemed to be directed elsewhere so I turned my own attention back to my iPhone while I waited. A minute later I felt a second round of taps against my butt. It was the same child.

I glanced around my immediate vicinity and noticed a young woman on the opposite side of the accessory display. An empty child stroller stood in front of her.

Ah ha. I found the mom.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” I said.

The woman looked at me.

“Is this your child?”

She looked at the boy for a second and then back at me. “Yeah, why?”

“He’s hitting me with a clothes hanger. Could you ask him to stop please?”

“He’s a child,” she replied.

“I’m well aware of that. That’s why I’m speaking to you.”

“What’s the issue here?”

“Normally I don’t mind being spanked on the ass but not by a 4 year-old kid. Can you retrieve him, please.”

The woman became defiant. “It’s a wire hanger. It won’t hurt anything. And in case you haven’t noticed, my son has developmental limitations. You can’t expect him to behave like other children.”

“I hadn’t noticed. In fact, the only developmental limitations I’ve observed are the ones being emitted from you.”

“What did you call me?”

“Nothing yet. But there’s still 9 people ahead of me so there’s plenty of time for me to test my vocabulary on you.”

“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business,” she snapped.

“I was until I had to defend my anal cavity from a coat hanger.”

“I don’t appreciate that vulgar language around my child.”

“You’re wearing a sweatshirt that reads I’m the Boss Bitch. You can stop playing the victim card.”

The kid must have been upset that I was in a verbal kerfuffle with his mom. He whacked me with the hanger again. This time on the knee.

I looked at the mom. “Pay attention if you want any prayer of being a decent mom.” I gently removed the hanger from the child’s hand and stared down at him.

“Kid, I’m going to give you likely the best advice you’ll receive in your life, apart from telling you to not grow up to be like your mom.”

I clenched the wire hanger in one hand and pursed my lips in my best Joan Crawford imitation. “NO.. WIRE… HANGERS!”